Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

— I’ll sell, the cunt goes, a bit too fucking quickly, then adds, —… no offence tae the works, Frank, but I really do need the money. But ah don’t get it, ah mean…

— Why is he peying that much for a pile a shite I’ve just cast, and huvnae even given ma signature mutilation?

Renton looks at me for a wee bit, raises the mug, takes a sip. — Well, aye.

Ah huv a wee laugh at that wi the cunt. — You dinnae get how art works, mate. It has zero value other than what people are prepared to pay for it. By paying what you did for it, you gied it that value. You also outbid a cunt whae doesnae like to be outbid. Ever.

— So why was he?

Ah pour us some mair tea fae the pot. — He instructed his agent tae go tae a certain price, thinking, like every cunt else, that the bidding would fall way, way under it. Then you come along and scooby every fucker. The agent, this boy Stroud, that cunt bidding against you, he was huvin kittens trying tae get the radge on the mobby before that hammer came doon.

— And he would have paid…

— Whatever it took. It fucks his heid that he didnae even ken who you were. Nae social media presence or nowt. Ah sits back oan the workbench. — He probably thought you were working on behalf ay some rival whae wis tryin tae stiff the cunt! But what ah want tae ken is, what the fuck was Mikey Forrester daein biddin it up?

Renton blows on the top ay his mug ay tea. — That was our auld buddy Sick Boy’s doing. I think he felt I needed a bigger financial hit. He was daein you a favour and me a bad turn. And Mikey and I never got on since back in the day. I rode this bird fae Lochend he was intae. He smiles in memory.

It sounds plausible enough. Everything in life is distorted by wee irrational jealousies and daft impulses. Ye huv tae get control ay these cunts or they destroy ye. So best thing tae dae – n aw they politicians n business cunts get this – is fuck up people that have nae real connection tae ye.

Renton looks around the studio. — I’m in the wrong game. All those years fannying around in music wi nae talent for it.

— Talent is way, way overrated, mate. Timing is all. And that’s maistly luck, and a wee bit ay intuition and savvy. I point tae him. — And thank fuck you’ve got that, bud. Ah owe ye big time. That cunt would have made ma bairns orphans.

— Ah’ll settle for us being square. Finally, he smiles.

Ah extend ma hand. — Square it is.

He gies a cheeky wee smile, which reminds me ay the way he looked as a kid. — And you were always quite good at art, back at school, before ye got flung out the class!

— That was the only class ah minded getting bounced oot ay. Ah lower ma voice cause ah kin hear Mel talking tae the bairns. — The best rides were in the art class.

— They still comprise twenty-five per cent ay ma wanking material, he grins.

— That’s quite low.

— I’ve been working in clubs for years. That’s steadily reduced it.

We just laugh, the baith ay us, like we used tae dae comin hame fae school. Doon Duke Street, along Junction Street, towards the Fort, pishin ourselves, just talkin aboot some daft shite or other. — Ken the funniest thing? We’re now both rich enough tae never let money come between us again.

It’s probably the nerves but Renton starts laughing like a fucking loony. Ah join in. Then he suddenly goes aw serious. — Ah want ye tae come down tae LA sometime, tae meet somebody.

Fuck knows whae, but it’s the least ah kin dae. — Sound.

The meal was eaten in stilted circumstances, but the job was done. Euan is, hopefully, once again isolated from Carlotta. That was just phase one: next that bastard is out of my family for good. This town ain’t big enough for the both of us! Then Marianne and I head back to the hotel to celebrate, and I’m straight online.

I thought it might be a bitty unwise to get Jill along to the room tae help Marianne and me celebrate our love. That somewhat unedifying bit of history from Christmas. Best make those accessories purely business ones. Jasmine, sadly, seems to have vanished. I was almost even tempted to call Syme to pull a favour, but I’m staying away from that grotbag. Instead, I get on to a wannabe Colleagues agency, and I’m ogling their app. My preference is for an African princess, black as coal, or even a raven-haired, dusky-skinned Romany maiden, in order to provide a contrast to Marianne’s Nordic Nazi. She looks over my shoulder and pulls a face. — Why can’t we get a guy? I want to be done by you and another guy! I want an uncircumcised dick with a big fat cherry bursting onto the scene.

I feel my brow crinkle in distaste, and lower the phone. — But, darling, I hate men. I can’t look at another man’s naked body without feeling sick. I can barely talk to them, I insist, as I’m psychologically scythed by a horrible image of Renton, fucking her, my soon-to-be wife.

— Maybe you need desensitivity training. C’mon, let’s get a guy!

I shake that Treacherous Ginger Bastard out of my head.

— It won’t work, honey. I’ve tried to tell you that over the years. I once went to an orgy and got a sweaty bawbag and hairy arse-crack in my face. Way too traumatising, and I’m far from the squeamish sort, I explain, shuddering in recall of a terrible incident in Clerkenwell. — I envy the fuck out of you, as I’ve always aspired to be bisexual.

— I’m no bisexual, she protests.

— Well, if you prefer, ‘a-woman-who-knows-how-to-pulverise-another-woman’s-clitoris-until-she-explodes’?

— I dinnae like labels, she says, then commands, — Suck my clit.

— Try stopping me, babes, just you try stopping me, I grin, — but only after you’ve picked a lassie, I nod to the phone.

Tutting and rolling her eyes, Marianne takes the iPhone off me, scrolling the profiles. She settles on Lily, another blonde who looks like a younger version of her. Fucking narcissists everywhere. It’s not a great contrast, and I stress the need for visual variety, but as she’s getting a bit twitchy, I decide it’s best not to push it. I call the agency and Lily will be at the hotel within the hour.

I get to work and multiple-orgasm Marianne, deploying fingers, tongue, cock and, most of all, speech play that would make a death-row sex offender blush. Fucking her down the years has been like reading that leather-bound Collected Works of William Shakespeare I ordered ages ago – you find something new each time you pick it up. She’s a feisty opponent, but I’ve hammered her into a dopey state of lassitude by the time the hooker arrives. I’ve taken care not blow my own wad, this was just a starter before the main dish of the day.

Lily comes up and I’m a bit despondent as her shots flatter her. Like extremely , like in an Exercise-Bike’s-Facebook-Page sort of way, where the posted snaps stop at around 1987, but no point in quibbling, as time is money. We go through only the rudimentary courtesies before getting down to business. Lily has a huge strap-on which she works into the arse of Marianne, who is crouched on the edge of the bed. I assume a similar position in front of Marianne, in order to take my fiancée’s lubed dildo up my hole. It’s going in with slow relief, like shitting in reverse, Marianne screaming as the base of the device is grinding against her clit like a demented Italian waiter on speed with a pepper cellar. I feel my soul being eye-wateringly spiked as Marianne gasps and shouts, — That’s my boy, take it right up ye… this is the faggot bitch I’m gaunny fuckin mairray…

I’m moving my hips to try and accommodate more dildo, while watching all this in the mirror, drinking in Marianne’s demented scowl and Lily’s gum-chewing detachment (at my instigation, all part of the set-up). Meanwhile, I’m chugging at my lubed penis in long strokes, feeling the pressure steadfastly building, like Hibs on the Rangers goal in the closing phase of the Hampden final. I’m thinking this is what married life will be like , when the door opens and the fucking cleaner…